


Peter and the Frog

by JessamyGriffith



Series: Guardians of the Puck [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Hockey RPF
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Hockey, BAMF Peter Quill, Gen, Guardians of the Galaxy (2014) - Freeform, Hockey, Kid Peter Quill, Marvel References, Pre-Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), goalie love, hockey rpf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: Sometimes it's rough, being a hockey fan in humid Missouri. But for eight-year-old Peter Quill, wannabe Great One and the neighborhood's smallest forward, it'sthesport. And he's gotta stand up for it and for what's right, even against kids twice his size.Pre-Guardians of the Galaxy AU - with hockey!





	Peter and the Frog

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much an exemplar of an AU. What if Peter's mom doesn't die? What if Peter is half-Canadian, and mad about hockey? What if we get to see Peter grow up with his mom, a true Leafs fan?
> 
> Warnings for the frog - if you remember the hospital scene from the Guardians of the Galaxy movie, you know what happens to the frog. So, there's that.

**August 10th, 1988, St. Louis, MO**

The alarm bleeps. Peter whines and slaps at it until the screech shuts off. Rolling back, he blinks at the ceiling until the fuzz in his brain clears. Go back to sleep, or…? No. Not today. He grinned. Hockey day.

He throws on shorts and his River Rafter t-shirt, jams his favorite #99 cap on his head and tip-toes around his room gathering up strewn street hockey gear and zipping it into his gym bag. His mom is probably still sleeping, enjoying her week of summer vacation, but the quiet movements are routine for Peter. Meredith’s work as a nurse at Mercy Hospital often mean long shifts where Peter has to get his own breakfast, but he doesn't mind. It's not like it's tough, sticking a frozen waffle in the toaster or whatever. He twirls his hockey stick in his hands a few times, enjoying the familiar heft before threading it through the handles of the bag.

He’s nearly finished a huge bowl of cereal with banana slices when there’s a rap on the back door. His classmate Josh smirks at Pete as he unlocks the door. He pushes past, squashing Peter against the wall with his overstuffed bag. “Hey, doofus. You ready yet?”

“Dude, keep it down, Mom’s still in bed,” Peter hisses.

“No duh,” Josh says with an eye-roll but in a lower tone, dropping his bag and propping his goalie stick against the wall with only a muted thump. He has a folded St. Louis Dispatch clutched in one hand for some reason. Josh leans against the fridge while Peter wolfs his food, draining his orange juice in a long gulp. He burps. Josh holds up the paper. “Hey, you seen the news?”

“One, I just got up, and two, we don’t have a newspaper subscription. What do you think?” Peter tips up his bowl, gulping the last of the cereal and milk.

“Gretzky got traded to the LA Kings.” Josh flourishes the paper.

Peter chokes and cereal-sweet milk flies from his nose. Josh laughs. “Nice one, Quill.”

Peter gasps and wipes his tearing eyes and dripping nose. “No shit?” In reply, Josh flips the paper on the table.

‘Hollywood’s Newest Star,’ the sports section blares. ‘LA Kings Get the Midas Touch in Historic Gretzky Trade.’ Beneath is a photo of Wayne at a press conference, visibly teary-eyed.

“Holy shit,” Peter whispers, safe in the knowledge his mom can’t hear him swearing. “Holy shit.” It’s like a full-body impact when his skates have been swept out from under him and he hits the ice. Gretzky is an institution, he is the face of hockey, of _Canadian_ hockey. “I can’t believe it.”

“Gotta get a new hat.” Josh nods at Peter’s Oilers cap. “Purple and gold are gonna suck. Ugliest uniforms in the NHL.”

Peter pulls it off and frowns at the blue, orange and white lettering. He replaces it with a decisive movement. “No. He’s still the best, no matter what team he’s on. I just - like, shit, dude.” He stands a moment, thinking. “C’mon. Get another bowl out of the cupboard for me?” Peter collects his own dishes, dumps them in the sink and starts prepping the coffee maker. He sets a banana on the table. “Mom’s gonna _wig_.” The only thing he can do is try to soften the blow by doing something nice. Oh, and motor the heck out of there before she hears.

“Why? It’s not like she’s an Oilers fan - she likes the _Leafs._ ” Josh digs a spoon from the cutlery drawer and sets it on the table.

“Get lost, loser, at least the Leafs have won the Cup,” Peter retorts. Josh is a great friend but his inexplicable love for the St Louis Blues isn’t one Peter can share, despite living in the same city. “It...it’s just a hockey thing. And she's Canadian as all get out about some things. You wouldn’t get it.“

Josh taunt of, “Yeah, ‘cuz I’m not a Canuck!” is overlain with, “Get what, Peter?” Meredith Quill drifts in, dark blonde curls rioting around her head but thankfully clothed for the day and not wearing her pajamas in front of his friend. She makes a beeline for the gurgling coffeemaker. “Coffee. Best kid ever.”

A flare of alarm roots Peter to the spot before he can get his mouth to work. “Uh, you know. Like. Why there’s so many Canadian players.” It’s lame, _lame_ , but okay, she’s not even paying attention. He reaches to snatch away the newspaper, but his mom turns, mug in hand. He settles for flipping it over, hiding the headline. “And I’m your only kid, as far as I know.”

She laughs and seats herself. “Small mercies. Good morning, Josh. You brought the paper? Thanks, you guys. Looks like a hotel breakfast.”

“Good morning, Miz Quill,” Josh says, weirdo Southern upbringing coming to the fore. “It’s nothing.”

“Cheerios okay?” Peter asks, brandishing the box. He really wants to leave, the itch to play making him antsy. He pours out the cereal, nudges the milk jug closer and turns to bolt to his room. Not fast enough, as his mom catches his t-shirt and reels him back, squawking. “Mom! I gotta go, the guys are waiting.”

“I know. Hockey, hockey,” she sighs. Peter can’t help answering her smile. “Got your pads? Water bottle? Wrist guards?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Sunscreen? Though it’s too late, you’re all freckle, kiddo.” She wrinkles her nose in mock disgust and he ducks his head. Whoever Peter’s dad is -- and Meredith has never mentioned him beyond saying that it had been impossible for him to be with her and Peter -- he hadn’t contributed much to Peter beyond light ginger-brown hair and eyes of indeterminate hazel green.

“‘S’in my bag,” Peter says.

Meredith’s eyes crinkle in fondness and Peter swallows a burst of adoration. His mom is so cool. Who needed a father around anyway? Not them. “Both you boys wear all your gear,” she admonishes. “I don’t want another episode where I have to pick gravel out of your knees. Don’t even joke, Mom knows all, and Mom is right.“

Peter heaves a put-upon sigh as Josh nods. “Sure thing, Miz Quill.”

“Josh,” Meredith says, “be a dear and get Peter’s bag, I’m about to embarrass him with maternal affection.”

Meredith cuts off Peter’s theatrical groan by squishing his cheeks with both hands before flipping his cap backwards and planting a kiss on his forehead. “Have fun, baby. Go be my little star. Show them how a Canadian plays.”

“You know I was born here, right, Mom?”

“I think I recall that,” she says, lips quirked. “Half a Canadian hockey player is still worth twice any other country’s.”

“Hey! I’m right here,” Josh complains as he returns with Peter’s bag and stick.

Meredith leans back and picks up her mug. “Sorry, Josh. What do I know about it anyway? After all, I like the _Leafs_.” She winks. “Just a little loud there earlier, buddy.”

Peter hoots as Josh’s ears turn red, and darts in for a quick hug. God, she’s great. “We’ll be at Brody’s today, if you wanna come watch.”

Josh mans up enough to chime in, “You’re the best ref we’ve had. If you don’t mind.”

“Maybe in an hour or so?” Meredith says. “After I do some chores around here and finish this gourmet breakfast.”

“Cool.” Josh shoves Peter’s bag into his arms and tilts his head to the door. Meredith is pulling the Dispatch towards her. _Oh, crap…_ They flee in a clatter of sticks and gear. The slam of the screen door swinging shut cuts off Meredith’s rising tone, “What the _h--!?”_

 

 

Outside, the air is already sticky with summer heat. Cicada calls sizzle and drone as they walk to Brody’s, bags light on shoulders filled with energy and anticipation. “Is Mike going to be there?” Peter asks. He hopes so. He hates having to play defense. He’s too small to be much good at it.

“Should be, the camping trip was only for a few days.”

“Chris? Jay? Ashley?”

“I don’t know, I guess so.”

“Sorry, dude.” Peter bumps Josh’s shoulder. “It’s just, you know…” Peter loves street hockey, though really it’s just a scaled down version of the real thing. But it's better than playing keep-away with one other person, or just working on shots with Josh in goal. Still, practice was practice.

“Nerd,” Josh replies. He raises a hand at a shout from the group at the end of the street. Several kids are already skating, alternating between graceful swoops and occasional flailing at near-collisions. “Yo! Look what I found!”

Peter grins and acknowledges the scattered greetings. Josh cheers and jogs over to help Brody Moore and his dad place the nets. “Nice! When did you get these, Brodes?”

“Yard sale on Sunday,” Mr. Moore replies. “You kids are here often enough, figure I’d give the neighbor's flower gardens a break.” Brody’s little sister Melissa has scooted into a net and is growling through the worn netting at anyone who comes too near and giggling.

“Your street’s the best, sir.” Peter says. It’s true - it’s wide, the pavement was resurfaced recently and unlike Josh’s or Peter’s own streets, it’s level. “Thanks for letting us play,” he adds, mindful of what manners his mother has drummed into him.

“Come on, losers, get your skates on!” Ashley shouts. She’s twelve, nearly a foot taller than Peter, does figure skating and Peter prefers having her on his team, because that reach? Wicked. Even if she bobbles her passes a lot. Another boy who is just about Ashley’s height but broader, sniggers and then grunts as his inline skate hits a pebble and he nearly face-plants. Ashley slides in and flicks the rock away with her stick. Keeping the street clean is pretty much a non-stop job for every player.

Peter joins Josh and Mike on the curb to gear up. “Who’s that?”

“My cousin, Kevin,” Mike says. “He’s visiting up from Arkansas with his family. We went camping. Now they’re doing sightseeing and shopping in St Louis. Tourist stuff. You know.”

“Country hick in the big city,” Josh says and Mike punches his arm. Josh can get away with that. It’s not like Mike doesn’t like Peter, it’s just that they’re… okay. Friendly but not same-school friends.

Peter focuses on clamping his skates closed, black plastic hot under his fingers in the sun. He runs fingers over the wheels on his right skate. The second one is still sticking. He wonders if he can get a new pair, instead of crappy second-hand ones, but shakes the thought away. A lot of his mom’s money goes for hockey equipment for the winter season, and that’s much more important than new inline skates. He watches new guy Kevin fumble with his stick, trying to carry the ball forward. The ball hops and gets away and Kevin bares his teeth. “At least he can skate,” Peter offers. He’s bewildered when Mike groans and flops back on the grass as Josh laughs. “What?”

“Like I said - neEEErrrrd,” Josh drawls.

“Am not!”

“You’re too small to be a jock, Petey. Hockey nerd,” Mike says. “For real, dude? ‘At least he can skate?’ Gonna bust out some rookie stats for us next?”

“Shut up,” Peter mutters. He raps Josh’s goalie helmet and rolls away from the retaliatory elbow. “Let’s play.”

The sticks are thrown into a pile. Josh and Davy, as their two goalies, are the one who usually divvy up the teams into caps-facing-forward and caps-backward. Kevin groans as his stick joins Ashley’s. “Great, I’m on the girl’s team.”

“Yeah,” Ashley says, flicking her ponytail unconcernedly. “Try and keep up.”

Melissa’s face is puffing up with incipient tears. “Dad, I wanna play too.”

“Missy, you’re too small,” Mr. Moore. “I don’t want you getting hurt, sweety.”

“I’m six!” she protests. “And I’m almost as big as Petey!” Peter ducks his head as everyone laughs. “Well, maybe!” she says. It’s true. Peter’s small for his age, it’s the bane of his life in school.

“Hey, I don’t care if she plays,” says Kevin. “Shrimps versus Giants. We’ll crush you even if you have more players.”

Mr. Moore looks at Josh, who shrugs. He sighs. “Fine. But buckle your helmet up, Missy. Guys, be extra careful about no-contact, ‘kay? Ten minute periods for this first game.”

Melissa cheers and scoots out, clutching her kiddy plastic stick. Not being a dick, Peter taps their blades together. “You wanna be a forward? Or on defense?”

Melissa scowls in thought. “Forward. But… I can’t go as fast as you guys.”

Peter looks at Jay, who shrugs. “Doesn’t matter,” Peter says. “You look for me and Jay, try and pass up to us, we’ll get the ball to the net.”

“Okay, captain,” she says, face serious. Josh coughs and turns away. Jay just cracks up.

“No way, I’m not captain here,” Peter protests, face burning. God, little kids could be embarrassing. “You be the captain. That means you get first face-off. What’s the plan, cap?”

Melissa thinks. “Beat them.”

“Good enough for me,” Mike says. They all rap their blades on the pavement and take positions, Peter on his preferred left-wing and Mike behind as sturdy defense. Peter adjusts an elbow pad that’s already getting sticky in the heat and tugs his cap lower.

“Hampton?” Kevin is facing him, looking at his cap. “Nice.”

“What?” Peter says.

“Number ninety nine. Dan Hampton? Cubs?” At Peter’s continued blank look, he drawls, “Football, stupid.”

“No, it’s Gretzky’s number.”

“Who?”

Peter stares at him. Unbelievable. “Wayne Gretzky? Oilers? The Great One?” Peter mimics Kevin’s Arkansas accent. “Hockey. Duh.” Who hasn’t heard of Gretzky? That’s just insulting.

“Why the heck does he have a football number?” Kevin says.

“It’s just a number, lame-o,” Peter says. “Football’s boring. Hockey’s better.” He isn’t going to waste breath telling this idiot how Gretzky picked it in honor of the legendary Gordie Howe’s number nine. He turns his head to watch the face-off, Ashley against Melissa. The ball drops, Ashley flicks the ball away from Missy’s flailing stick and the game begins.

The first period flies by. Kevin is okay on his skates but it’s no big deal for Peter to get around him. He may be small, but he’s nimble and much better at stick-handling. Melissa is something of a hindrance as players on both try not to stumble over or bump into her. But she does her best to slap the ball to Peter and Jay when she gets near it, which results in a 2-1 lead for their team. She’s all smiles when Jay high-fives her and thanks her for the assist.

The game pauses for a few minutes. Kevin scowls as Ashley lectures him on handling the ball and not just swinging at it.

“What does it even matter?” Kevin says. “If I hit the ball out of bounds, we get a face-off, and you keep winning those.”

“I don’t want any more face-offs by our goal. Winning them is no good if Peter keeps stealing the ball,” Ashley says bluntly. “He’s tricky.”

Peter bites back a smile and instead practices passing with Melissa. “No, angle your blade down a little, Missy,” he says. “You gotta kind of cup the ball if you do a hard pass, or it’ll roll over the top or just fly off somewhere. Better if you just push it. Like this.” He demonstrates, and executes a slow pass. She angles her stick a little better and rolls it back to him. “Yeah, that’s it. Sweet.” He lowers his voice. “Keep practicing, and you’ll be twice as good as Kev there in no time. Secret, okay?”

The smile under bright eyes and wind-tangled brown hair is complicit. “No secret. Already am.”

Peter snorts.

“Okay, kids, second period,” calls Mr. Moore.

“You better watch yourself this half, douche,” Kevin mutters at him as they settle into positions.

Peter shouldn’t say anything, he really shouldn’t. But he’s riding high after their first period and can’t help himself. “I know you are, but what am I?” Peter sing-songs. “And hockey doesn’t have half-time. Learn the game if you’re gonna play it.”

Davy’s team is digging harder this period, and the game gets tougher. Ashley uses her fiendish reach to pop player’s sticks up off the ball, Mike almost clips Josh’s mask with an accidental high stick, and Chris isn’t quick enough to avoid dodging Missy’s dogged hunt for the ball. He ends up doing a stumble-roll fall to avoid the collision, and Mr. Moore calls a two minute time-out to make sure he’s okay. He is. But Kevin is being a pain in the butt, knocking his elbow into Peter, bumping him and jamming his stick into Peter’s skates when they scuffle for the ball. Peter has to do a few awkward high steps and Kevin laughs. “Nice break-dancing.” Peter manages to clear the ball from his end, but it’s picked up by the keen Ashley and driven past Josh. Her team cheers.

“It’s non-contact, Kevin,” Mr. Moore reminds him.

“Yeah, I know. I got a little excited, sir. Sorry. My first time, you know,” Kevin says, all faux-sincerity.

“Guy’s being a jerk,” Josh mutters as Peter skates near. “How ‘bout you bury one in their net, Petey? Show him what you can do.”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Not gonna happen, he won’t lay off.” He grimaces at Mike. “Sorry he’s your cousin, dude.” Mike shrugs, and Peter continues, “I got an idea, though.”

Under the guise of checking Missy’s sagging knee-pads, he whispers, “Missy, when Ashley wins the face-off, I want you to go cherry-pickin’ next to Davy.”

“What?”

“Just... just skate over next to him and wait. We’ll get the ball to you, you tap it in. Easy, like picking cherries. Okay?”

Her face lights up. “Okay!”

Kevin smiles as they face each other, and Peter smiles back. He’s going to go full… well, not Gretzky, more like Jari Kurri on this guy. Ashley gets the ball to one of her defensemen, who starts a rush on goal. Peter hopes Josh and Brody can handle the attack and get the ball away from them. In the meantime, he’s skating backwards, drawing Kevin into his zone by doing cross-steps left and right as if he’s trying to get away. Kevin is grinning, sure his intimidation tactics and size are making Peter wary. “Gun-shy, spazz?”

A quick glance shows Peter that, _yes!_ Mike has gotten the ball up to Josh and that’s all it takes. “Heck, no,” he says and digs in hard. In two strides he’s around Kevin, going low and ducking under his outstretched arm. “Open!” he yells, and the ball thumps onto his stick, he’s got it, but Jake is there on defense, waiting. A deke left, like he’s going to take it back around the goal and Jake _falls_ for it. Peter’s free and easy with only Davy moving into the corner of the net to face him, glove and blocker set for Peter’s shot. Peter’s grin is wild but his pass to Missy is soft. Davy’s way out of position, realizes it and lunges - too late. Missy taps it in, nice and easy, like picking cherries. She shrieks. Peter whoops, stick raised and goes in for a victory hug. “Way to go, cap! That goal was a beauty!”

“I did it! Daddy, did you see that? I got a goal!” Missy says, flinging herself at her father’s legs.

“I saw, pumpkin.” Mr. Moore rocks her helmet affectionately. “That was some great playing,” he says, but he’s looking at Peter.

“Team work,” Peter says, but he’s pleased.

The last few minutes of the period leaves the score tied at 3-3. Players break into groups to talk or sit on the lawn and Mr. Moore goes inside to take a phone call. Peter idly skates circles around his net, flapping his shirt, trying to get a breeze under it. Davy skates over, tugging his goalie helmet off to swipe at his sweat-damp hair. “That was a rad move, Quill. Totally set me up.”

Peter smiles. “Thanks, dude. I guessed you wouldn’t suspect Missy.”

Davy snorts. “Of course not! Hate you, man.” He skates backwards, making a grossed-out face.

“You know you’ll love me when I’m on your team next time,” Peter calls after him.

“Yeah, nuh uh!”

“Uh huh!” Peter can’t help grinning. He may be small, he may not be the most popular kid in school, but he’s totally got this. Hockey is his thing. Too bad his mom hadn’t seen that play.

“No, leave it alone!” Missy’s shout cuts through heated air. Peter squints. Melissa is trying to push Kevin, but doesn’t have the weight or leverage to move him. He’s laughing, looking at something on the pavement. It hops. A frog. Kevin tries to scoop it onto his stick and it hops again. “No, no, little buddy, not that way, can’t get away that fast,” Kevin croons.

“Kevin, just leave it,” Mike says. The others have turned to watch. No one is doing anything except Missy, whose voices is pitching higher and higher in distress.

“Don’t, don’t hurt it, don’t!”

“What is your problem, dude?” Peter demands.

“Problem? No problem.” Kevin’s smirk is nasty. “You said I should learn the game. I’m just practicing a little stick work, is all.” Melissa hacks at his skates with her little plastic stick and he hip checks her away, her thin arms flailing as she lands on her rear.

“Hey, that is not cool,” Brody says. “That’s my little sister. Back off.” He’s sitting up, fingers curling into grass.

“Relax, I’m just playing,” Kevin says. He pokes the frog again and laughs at its awkward sideways leap. “Work with me, little guy, goal’s over there.”

“Stop it.” Peter didn’t know his voice could sound like that, so quiet and certain. He’s edging closer, hands and face cold, heart hammering.

“Whoa, Kevin, Peter, just -” Josh is saying.

“Please,” Missy whispers. “Peter, please.”

“You gonna stop me, Great One? Gonna save this stupid frog?” Kevin asks. He laughs. “So save it, then.” He winds up. “Slapshot!”

Peter’s eyes widen. “No!” Time slows to a trickle as the shot connects and the frog lifts, slow, slow, flying up, towards - no, not towards him, to his right, just below shoulder height but - he launches himself, arm outstretched, he’s not going to catch it, it’s going past and - he has it. His fingers close and he has just enough awareness to tuck his hand against his chest and turn his shoulder against the pavement. He impacts, grunting, and time snaps back as he rolls, skates clattering. He groans. Man. This was going to _hurt_.

The others are either yelling at Kevin or cheering. Cautiously, Peter sits up. “‘M’okay. I’m okay. I got it. Saved it, Missy.” He uncurls his fingers.

No. The frog is twitching slightly, broken foreleg dangling. An obscene bulge of guts protrudes from its mouth. Thin blood fills his palm. A last flutter of its fragile abdomen and, and - he didn’t. He didn’t save it.

Peter screams and drops the frog. “Oh, oh God!” He scrambles up and away. His eyes are stinging as he turns on Kevin. “Why? Why would you even do that?”

“Aw. Widdle Great One gonna cry?” Kevin says. “It’s just a frog. It’s nothing.” He puckers his lips. “Maybe you can kiss it better.”

The burning in his shoulder recedes as the world narrows down to Kevin’s mocking face, smug, thoughtless, cruel. Peter drops his stick and charges. Kevin barks a laugh and drops his own. “Ooh, you wanna tackle me? Gonna show you how the real men play, shrimp.”

The punch Kevin lands on Peter’s ear knocks his cap off, makes his head ring. But as his mom always said, hockey is an education sometimes, and Peter’s watched enough NHL games on TV to guess what he should do. His right hand locks on the neckband of Kevin’s shirt and he bends his knees as he yanks, using his weight to bend Kevin double, skates skittering as he tries to keep his balance. Yes, off-balance, _perfect_ , now wrench backwards, get that shirt over stupid Kevin’s head, blind him, trap his arms. Peter’s punches are wild, he doesn’t even know if he’s connecting any of them. A kick knocks Peter’s skates out from under him and he falls backwards, Kevin on top. A bright pain explodes in his mouth and he tastes blood. He’s trying to roll away from under Kevin, get on top again when the weight is abruptly dragged off of him and he’s left gasping in the sun.

He sits up. Something tickles his chin. When he swipes at it with his forearm, it’s blood. He spits to the side, trying to get rid of the coppery taste coating his tongue. His mouth is bleeding, there’s blood on his scraped knuckles. Blood wet in his palm from the frog. _Mom is going to kill me_ , he thinks distantly. This is way, way worse than the gravel incident.

Mr. Moore is holding the back of Kevin’s shirt. “Hey, hey! What in hell is going on?”

“That little punk just flipped out and attacked me!” Kevin yells. “He’s crazy!”

“Screw you, you redneck jackass!” Peter screams. “You started it! You don’t scare me. Big guy, killing frogs and making Missy cry.”

“What’s this?” Mr. Moore says, and there’s a sudden hubbub, Missy half-choking something about the frog, Josh saying something about how Kevin kept playing dirty and Ashley wishing Kevin had never been on her team, what a jerk. Only Mike stays quiet, but he looks like he wishes he were a million miles away, clearly embarrassed.

“Okay.” Mr. Moore pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you really go after him first, Peter?”

He drops his eyes. “Yessir.”

“But Kevin hit him first,” Missy says. “I don’t like him, Dad. He killed that frog for no reason!”

Kevin shrinks under Mr. Moore’s gaze. “Was only a frog,” he says. “And you heard him - he started it.”

“How old are you?” Mr. Moore asks. Kevin mumbles something indistinct. “Twelve. Yeah. And Peter there is eight years old,” Mr. Moore says. “I don’t excuse his behaviour, but yours? I’m going to have a little chat with your parents about you beatin’ on kids half your size. Just look at the state of him! Hope you’re real proud. Mike, sorry, but take your cousin home.” He propels Kevin towards Mike with a gentle shove. “Peter, game’s over for you too. Say goodbye to your friends. You come on inside, get you cleaned up. I’ll call your mother.”

“‘Kay,” Peter whispers. He accepts Josh’s hand pulling him to his feet. He looks down at Missy. “Sorry, Missy. Sorry. I couldn’t save the - the frog.” The reaction from the fight is hitting him now. His throat is tight, but he won’t cry. Not here.

She pats his arm. “‘S’okay.” Her face is tear-blotched but she smiles. “You hit Kev. I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Ashley says, and Peter hiccups something between a sob and a laugh. Ashley’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Your tooth, Peter!”

“What?” Peter explores with his tongue, then a finger. There’s a gap where an upper incisor should be. As if only waiting for his attention, his mouth starts throbbing with pain. “Oh, crap. Crap.” He looks about and sees the tooth in a splatter of blood and spit. He picks it up gingerly.

“Huh,” Davy says. “Look like a real hockey player now, Quill. Cool.” He taps his stick on the pavement, and the others follow suit. It’s so like how real NHL players praise a fight that Peter swallows hard.

“Duh. Because he is a real player? Not like you, dude, ha,” Josh says. “Peter, you wanna play goalie next time? I’ll lend you my pads. Like, you catching that frog?” He shakes his head. “Crazy reflexes. Crazy.”

“If my mom lets me,” Peter says, glum.

“Naw, she won’t make you stop playing hockey,” Josh assures him. “Not forever. You freaky Canadians gotta play.” He hands over Peter’s dusty Oilers cap.

“Half Canadian,” Peter says, but his lips curve into a tired half-smile. He un-clicks the straps on his skates, throws them in his bag and picks up his stick. “See you guys. Sorry to mess up the game.” With farewells following his back, he trudges up the drive to the Moore’s house, sore and aching.

 

 

Back home, seated on a kitchen chair, Peter looks at the ceiling while his mom checks his mouth. She sits back on her heels. “Well, at least it was one of your baby teeth. Your lip’s cut, though.” She places a roll of gauze into the gap. “Bite. I’ll call the dentist and see if you need to go in.”

Peter grimaces, tongue poking at the gauze plug. “Ugh.”

“Well, baby, if you’re gonna go all Bobby Probert on people bigger than you, I foresee more dentist trips than I can afford.”

“‘M’sorry, Mom,” Peter mumbles.

“Thought we were done with fighting after you changed schools. And now…” She sighs and pulls up a chair to sit facing him. “I know hockey is a violent sport, but Peter…”

“Don’t make me quit,” Peter says, heart shrinking. “Please, Mom.” It’d be the worst, he and his mom both love hockey, and...

“Little star.” She strokes his hair behind his throbbing ear, tsks at the bruising and hands him a cold cloth to place against it. “I know you had your reasons, and I think - well, I’m glad you stood up against a bully like that. No, really. Just - this isn’t the way, baby.” Her mouth quivers between smiling and turning down. “Hockey’s about teamwork, and fighting isn’t playing. It just gets you into trouble - with your team, and with your poor mother. Wasn’t the best moment, getting a call to pick up my battered son.” She heaves a breath.

Peter looks at his lap. “Sorry.”

“Hey.” She tips his chin up. “We’re okay. I’m not making you quit. Okay?” When he nods, she smiles. “Doesn’t mean you’re escaping punishment, kiddo.”

“Aw, Mom.” Peter slumps. He awaits his fate.

“No hockey, no skating for two weeks. Yes, I know school’s starting soon,” she says over his whine of protest. “Too bad. Think before you punch next time. Be smarter, not badder. Gretzky, not goon. And no TV for three days. Capiche?”

“Bet Gretzky never got grounded two weeks for fighting,” Peter grumbles.

“That’s because McSorley does the fighting for him, and no, that is not a recommendation for you to do the same, Peter. Because then the Oilers have to kill the penalty. Never throw the other team any advantage by fighting. That’s your After School Special lesson, kiddo.” Meredith’s mouth flattens. “Not that I should care what happens to the Oilers, now Gretzky and McSorley are going all American. Da-- _darn_ it.”

“Yeah.” They sit in silence, contemplating the defection of Canada’s best player and his enforcer. Peter pokes Meredith’s leg with his toe. “Come on, Mom. You know America needs all the help it can get from Canada. Look at you.”

She laughs and drops a kiss on his hair. “Flatterer. You’re right. Okay, enough heart-to-hearting, babe. Go run some water over that shirt. Rinse your mouth out if it’s still bleeding. Read a book or something. I’ll bring you a kiddy Tylenol and some frozen peas for your shoulder.”

“Two Tylenol?” Peter asks pathetically.

“No son of mine is going to turn into a narcotics fiend on my watch, mister.”

“Only son,” Peter reminds her.

“Only one I want, toothless and all,” she says.

Peter smiles around the gauze. “Love you too, Mom.”

“Terrible child.” Meredith scrubs her hand through her curls. “After all this excitement, I think I need a glass of wine with dinner tonight.”

“Sorry,” Peter offers again but she just waves him off with an expressive roll of her eyes.

In the bathroom, Peter strips out of his t-shirt. The fabric over the shoulder looks pretty rough, and there’s blood down the front. He shrugs, drops it in the sink and turns the faucet on. In the mirror, he’s a mess. Iodine stains a swathe of his shoulder and arm in bilious yellow. His ear is all fat and bruised, his lip is swollen and when he bares his teeth, he looks - well. He does look like a hockey player. A goon.

It’s not that Peter likes fighting. It sucks, mostly. It’s just that sometimes he doesn’t have a choice. Still. He doesn’t want his mom to get that look in her eyes, like she’s so disappointed in him. He definitely doesn’t want her to cut off hockey. Peter pulls the gauze out and gingerly touches the socket. No blood, but _ow_.

Peter can’t help one quick gap-toothed grin at himself. It’d been totally worth it today, going after Kevin. For Missy and the frog.

He slips into his room, tugs on a fresh shirt and lays down on his bed. Reaching over, he grabs the old Walkman his mom gave him last year. The headphones are a bit painful on his swollen ear, so he nudges the pad forward onto his cheek. He settles back against the pillows and presses Play. The song starts in the middle of the bouncy Jackson 5’s ‘Want You Back’. His foot waggles to the beat as he thinks back on the game. Screw Kevin. Peter had made some awesome plays in spite of him.

He winces as his tongue probes the socket again. Ugh. Losing teeth really sucked. What he needed… what he needed to do was… Peter thinks of that strange suspended moment, the frog landing dead centre of his palm. Man. He couldn’t believe he’d done that.

Peter sits bolt upright, knocking his headphones off as the idea occurs to him. Yeah. That’ll work, his mom will probably love the idea. No fights, no extra dentist visits, full protection! Perfect. He bounds out his room and slides into the kitchen. Meredith is just hanging up the phone and raises a brow at him.

“Mom? I wanna be a goalie,” Peter says.

He’s vaguely offended when she gapes at him, then covers her face, snorting with laughter. “Of course,” she sputters. “Why am I not surprised. Okay. We’ll see, baby. We’ll see.”

Peter scowls. His idea is rad. He’s going to be the best goalie the world has ever seen.

Everyone had better just wait and see.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic notes - Wayne Gretzky, #99, a.k.a. The Great One. Acknowledged as the best hockey player of all time, I remember the uproar and sense of national betrayal that happened when he was traded from the Edmonton Oilers to the L.A. Kings. Like, you would not even believe. There was a petition to Parliament for legislation to stop it, that's how strongly people felt. On the other hand, Gretzky made hockey popular in the southern states of the U.S., paving the way for expansion teams. All's well that ends with hockey.
> 
> Gordie Howe, #9 - what is there to say about this legend? His first pro game was in 1946, his last in 1980. Yes, 1980. His nickname is Mr. Hockey and his number has been retired by the Detroit Red Wings. Best of all is what's called a 'Gordie Howe Hat trick' - getting a goal, an assist and a fight all in one game (though he only did the feat twice in his own career. He was also famous for his physical play and flying elbows to opponents' faces, which earned his his lesser known nickname, Mr. Elbows.
> 
> Robert 'Bobby' Probert, #24 - an enforcer, a goon - talented, but mostly known for his fighting skills. He accrued 3300 penalty minutes over a career of seventeen years, putting him 5th of the list of highest number of penalties collected. I have a fondness for him, since he is from my old hometown, and I got to see him play with the Detroit Red Wings.
> 
> Jari Kurri, #17 - Finnish player who was Gretzky's line-mate while with the Edmonton Oilers. A flash of speed, and there he'd be, tipping in a goal or assisting on Wayne's. In the NHL's top 100 players of all time list.
> 
> Marty McSorley, #33 - same general category as Probert, and was pretty much Gretzky's bodyguard on ice, drawing people off him so Gretzky could do his thing, and teaching those who hurt Gretzky a lesson - i.e. 'Don't touch him or face me.' Unfortunately, his career was ended with an on-ice attack on Donald Brashear severe enough for one-year suspension and criminal charges. Don't be a goon, kids.
> 
> And now - Peter Quill, goaltender.
> 
> Why a goalie? you ask. Goalies can't even be captains of their teams! Peter Quill should be a captain!  
> Well, this is true. Until Robert Luongo, who served as a captain for the Vancouver Canucks 2008-10, there hadn't been a goalie captain in the NHL since 1948. There's a rule against it. Reason? Well, that goalie in '48. Bill Durnan was the most contentious captain ever, arguing so many official's calls that they felt he was giving his team extra time-outs to rest up. Luongo himself never wore the C on his jersey, but on his face mask - his captaincy was unofficial. He eventually left the position because it meant so many interviews and media obligations before and after games that he felt it was taking away from his need to concentrate, in zen goalie-fashion, on his true work - being the last line of defense.
> 
> You see, the goaltender is the guardian of the net, and the last man between the attackers and goal. He puts his body in front of hunks of rubber going a hundred miles per hour deliberately - for his team. For the win. And that's definitely a Guardians thing.
> 
> Lastly, and my real reason? Goalies are fucking crazy, they are acknowledged weirdos with superstitions and quirks. They fight, hilariously, like marshmallows attacking. They dance (check out goalies dancing on YouTube, you will not be disappointed, I PROMISE.) They have the coolest gear. They assist on goals, they sometimes even score goals. They are tough, sometimes calm, occasionally viciously violent. They give the best hugs. They are unique beings (like Peter) with a singular skill set unlike any other. Coaches can't handle them, opponents hate and respect them, teams rally around to protect them.
> 
> Goalies are the best. Ergo - Peter Quill is a natural goalie.


End file.
